[FIC] Compromises, Ron-centric, PG
Title: Compromises
Author: queen_of_paine (Kaye)
Rating: PG for language
Word Count: 1,878
Genre: Genfic. Ron-centric.
Summary: It's been six months to the day, and it's been all about compromises.
Notes: Written for a quills_elite contest. Prompt was: Pick one location, place it in the Potterverse (it can be anywhere in the physical world, not just England), and write a story about it. I chose Bronze Courtyard and Refuge of Silence from the given list. Placed 5th, technically (I don't even understand why it got votes). Unbeta-ed, half-baked. Concrit is welcome.
Ron trudges along the wet cobblestone sidewalk, half-sniffing, half-sneezing. The weather is at the point where it hangs on precarious balance, and the gradual transition isn’t making it any easier for anyone.
The small amount of light coming from the lampposts casts a strange color of muted orange on the street. He walks quickly, stuffing his hands deep into his jacket pockets. The air is so very damp, and he’s not quite sure if his face is sweating or just wet from the moisture.
Sometimes he doesn’t understand why the weather can be a bit confused. This time he does.
He reaches his building, the Bronze Courtyard, after a series of little mishaps along the way. “Fuck,” Ron mutters as the keys to his flat slip from his fingers. He fumbles for a while before he gets the door open, kicking it close with wholehearted frustration.
He is somewhere along sticking wads of tissue paper up his nostril when the front door opens and Ginny pokes her head in.
“That’s a nice look you got going there.”
Ron ignores her and strides to the kitchen, opening-closing cupboards, creating a mass utensil-barrage noise. “Ginny, would you bugger off and be annoying some other time when my nose is not bloody running off my face?”
“Too late.”
He takes notice of the grocery bags Ginny had placed on the counter and points at them. “Please don’t tell me mum sent you.”
She shrugs and pulls up a chair. “I figured I’d drop by the market and get you some vegetables before I head home. Oh, and Hermione told me to give this to you.” Ginny rummages through one of the bags and tosses him a small white bottle. He doesn’t bother to read the label and quickly removes the cap.
“You’re supposed to drink one of those after every meal,” Ginny says, observing the look of wonder on his brother’s face. He holds one of the green capsules to the fluorescent light and squints at it.
“I’m guessing this tiny, little thing is supposed to make me feel better?”
“Ideally, yes. The Muggles have been using it for ages, Ron-“
“Uh-huh. Sure.” He snorts before he stashes the bottle away. He goes back to washing the pile of dishes that had accumulated over a period of a few days, and Ginny can’t help but notice the change in posture his brother had taken. It was as if he was pouring the tension into the filthy sponge and scrubbing the plates like they were about to break.
Scrub.Scrub.
Ginny remains silent for a while. It’s been six months of this, of people feeling lost and not knowing what can come of this. Programs have been implemented, but people are just wary, some angry, and a few still hoping that there really isn’t any need for those.
“I’m good at this,” Ron says in between dishes and cups. He doesn’t turn to look at Ginny, but she knows why it was said and what for.
“So you’re finally getting the hang of that job in the restaurant?” She browses the two-day-old Muggle paper as she says this. She notes with dull awareness how the pictures of the game called football were unmoving. It was slightly unnerving.
Scrub. Scrub.
“Mm. So how is he?” Ron scratches at the week-old stubble on his chin without much thought to the soapsuds that now grace it.
A slight pause at the turn of a page. “Eh. Same old same old. You know, still the same person, except that he’s not, because he’s, you know…”
Scrub. Scrub.
“Fuck.”
Ginny wonders when this kind of conversation will ever cease to exist.
The scrubbing stops, and the sound of running water now fills the bare spaces of the room. “This can’t last longer than it already has, Ginny. He has to remember soon.” Ron grips the edge of the sink, as if holding onto it can relieve him of this desperation.
“I know that, Ron,” Ginny says in a low voice, “but we can’t do anything right now, not like this. We made a decision, and both parties supported that. A lot of lives were lost that night, and you know as well as I do that we can’t have them hating us. Don’t you think we ought to start accepting this than fight it?”
Ron turns to look at her and barks out a dry laugh. “And then what, hope for the best? I can’t believe you’re even saying this! This situation is only temporary, and as soon as we find out what spell it was, we can get everything back.” There’s a fierceness in his voice that Ginny finds familiar. It’s quite old but now tinged with a reverberating melancholy.
Ginny almost wants to believe that he’s right. No, she believes that what he’s saying is right but not possible. The look in her brother’s eyes reminds her of that day at Hogwarts when Ron told her with determination that he was going to be an Auror, and she believed him wholeheartedly.
“I miss everything just as much as you do, Ron.” She watches as he struggles with a myriad of conflicting thoughts. There’s too much debris and clutter on every person’s mind, and Ginny wishes she can say that one word to make them go away. Ron gives her a blurred, glassy-eyed look before resuming his task.
“Anyway, be sure to drink those, and Hermione said to call her soon.”
Scrub. Scrub.
“Huh. I’ll probably just ring Hermione later,” he mutters to himself as Ginny slips out the door.
Ron takes his time going through his evening routine of mediocre tea and cursing broken heaters. Tonight he finds himself with a young moon, so, for the third time in a week, he grabs his jacket and meets the early evening air outside.
He turns left in front of the Bronze Courtyard, crosses the first intersection, then turns left at the corner of the video shop. He knows this route like the back of his hand, and he steadies his pace. A half-hour ride on the bus and he feels out of sorts. Sometimes, the immensity of what is missing hits him like a bludgeon to the head, and he feels dizzy and ill like the world will never be right again.
Episkey. Scourgify. Accio. Wingardium Leviosa. Tergeo. Protego. Rictusempra. Episkey… He recites the mantra in his head over and over. He rolls the syllables on his tongue, remembering how the Professors at Hogwarts taught him a long time ago. His grip tightens. He’s afraid he might forget this, the Latin, the pronunciation, the magic. It’s slowly fading, every minute he spends in this world without the tiniest bit of connection to everything he loves is killing the memories. He’s afraid that he’s forgetting, and he thinks he might die from it.
The driver calls his stop, and he gets off.
The temperature is lower here than in most parts of the city, and Ron never forgets to bring along the ridiculous ear muffs and scarf Ginny gave him for his birthday. He squares his shoulders and begins the short hike up the hill.
There’s a block of marble stone just a little up ahead with the words Refuge of Silence carved on it, and underneath were verses of lament and grief, For the thousands of souls that met their…. It might have looked strangely looming and isolated, but the Muggle caretakers never forget to place flowers around it for company. Tonight, the chrysanthemums’ petals speak a silent red in the moonlight.
Ron marches on, it’s about five minutes to the top, and he thinks without much hope that each of the 5-minute treks he’d taken here for the past 6 months all lead to the same thing. He’s not sure what he comes here for, and it’s as if the answer is just buried there, refusing to be found.
He glimpses the familiar white expanse of wall at the top. The light from the moon reflects the silver engravings on it, and Ron walks up to it, pauses to skim the rows and columns of letters blending into words. Close to 5,000 faceless names, but Ron knows where to look and finds it immediately. Timothy Harris, Remus J. Lupin, Susan Jones… and just a few spaces below it, Harry James Potter. He regards it with a steady stare for a while then continues up the path towards a small clearing surrounded by trees, just on the edge of a cliff.
He moves forward and takes in the view of the wide open space below him. The sky is littered with the occasional clouds, but the moon bathes everything in a deep blue glow. Ron waits, just like the dozens of times he’s come here before, for something that might clue him in on this baffling puzzle. This had been a battleground, but at the same time it was not.
Six months to the day, and it’s been all about compromises. Ron never imagined the end to be like it had been, more like the end of everything than anything else. It left him completely stumped and despondent.
He needs to know exactly what happened here six months ago, and it feels like he’s just going in circles, his search always leading him here, where everything ended and this began. This place has always been a dead end, but the other path in the fork that leads to another end is not as dead and permanent as this. He must remember.
There is a soft, cool breeze blowing across the land, and Ron breathes it in. It’s time to leave.
He needs to remember what happened.
He always takes the longer path going down. The scent of pine trees soothes his tired soul, and the silence that hangs over the place gives justice to its name. Another bus ride and he ends up in another more obscure part of town. A 5-minute walk, a left here, a right there, and he arrives at the two-storey, newly painted building.
He squints and runs his finger down the list of residents until he spots it. He presses the buzzer right next to a Mr. H. Wilkins and waits patiently in the confused September fog. “Yes, who’s there?”
He shifts on his feet. “It’s me.”
“Oh, Mr. Weasley.” Ron has never found it stranger to be associated with this kind of niceties, but he is slowly getting accustomed to it. “I mean Ronald, hello! Uhh you’re just in time, I just came from work. I’ll buzz the door for you.” His voice is the same, Ron thinks, except that the clean slate it perches on gives a foreign tone to it.
Ron takes the stairs two at a time. Please, he must remember. The images of everything he holds dear come flooding his mind, and he is thankful that he isn’t forgetting. Whatever may come after this, he believes it’ll be worth the wait and the sacrifices. He believes it will all come back.
He raps on the door, once, twice, three times, and Ron pulls on a small, sideways grin as the door opens. A messy mop of black hair, bespectacled green eyes. Some things never change.
“Harry.”
-end-
Author: queen_of_paine (Kaye)
Rating: PG for language
Word Count: 1,878
Genre: Genfic. Ron-centric.
Summary: It's been six months to the day, and it's been all about compromises.
Notes: Written for a quills_elite contest. Prompt was: Pick one location, place it in the Potterverse (it can be anywhere in the physical world, not just England), and write a story about it. I chose Bronze Courtyard and Refuge of Silence from the given list. Placed 5th, technically (I don't even understand why it got votes). Unbeta-ed, half-baked. Concrit is welcome.
Ron trudges along the wet cobblestone sidewalk, half-sniffing, half-sneezing. The weather is at the point where it hangs on precarious balance, and the gradual transition isn’t making it any easier for anyone.
The small amount of light coming from the lampposts casts a strange color of muted orange on the street. He walks quickly, stuffing his hands deep into his jacket pockets. The air is so very damp, and he’s not quite sure if his face is sweating or just wet from the moisture.
Sometimes he doesn’t understand why the weather can be a bit confused. This time he does.
He reaches his building, the Bronze Courtyard, after a series of little mishaps along the way. “Fuck,” Ron mutters as the keys to his flat slip from his fingers. He fumbles for a while before he gets the door open, kicking it close with wholehearted frustration.
He is somewhere along sticking wads of tissue paper up his nostril when the front door opens and Ginny pokes her head in.
“That’s a nice look you got going there.”
Ron ignores her and strides to the kitchen, opening-closing cupboards, creating a mass utensil-barrage noise. “Ginny, would you bugger off and be annoying some other time when my nose is not bloody running off my face?”
“Too late.”
He takes notice of the grocery bags Ginny had placed on the counter and points at them. “Please don’t tell me mum sent you.”
She shrugs and pulls up a chair. “I figured I’d drop by the market and get you some vegetables before I head home. Oh, and Hermione told me to give this to you.” Ginny rummages through one of the bags and tosses him a small white bottle. He doesn’t bother to read the label and quickly removes the cap.
“You’re supposed to drink one of those after every meal,” Ginny says, observing the look of wonder on his brother’s face. He holds one of the green capsules to the fluorescent light and squints at it.
“I’m guessing this tiny, little thing is supposed to make me feel better?”
“Ideally, yes. The Muggles have been using it for ages, Ron-“
“Uh-huh. Sure.” He snorts before he stashes the bottle away. He goes back to washing the pile of dishes that had accumulated over a period of a few days, and Ginny can’t help but notice the change in posture his brother had taken. It was as if he was pouring the tension into the filthy sponge and scrubbing the plates like they were about to break.
Scrub.Scrub.
Ginny remains silent for a while. It’s been six months of this, of people feeling lost and not knowing what can come of this. Programs have been implemented, but people are just wary, some angry, and a few still hoping that there really isn’t any need for those.
“I’m good at this,” Ron says in between dishes and cups. He doesn’t turn to look at Ginny, but she knows why it was said and what for.
“So you’re finally getting the hang of that job in the restaurant?” She browses the two-day-old Muggle paper as she says this. She notes with dull awareness how the pictures of the game called football were unmoving. It was slightly unnerving.
Scrub. Scrub.
“Mm. So how is he?” Ron scratches at the week-old stubble on his chin without much thought to the soapsuds that now grace it.
A slight pause at the turn of a page. “Eh. Same old same old. You know, still the same person, except that he’s not, because he’s, you know…”
Scrub. Scrub.
“Fuck.”
Ginny wonders when this kind of conversation will ever cease to exist.
The scrubbing stops, and the sound of running water now fills the bare spaces of the room. “This can’t last longer than it already has, Ginny. He has to remember soon.” Ron grips the edge of the sink, as if holding onto it can relieve him of this desperation.
“I know that, Ron,” Ginny says in a low voice, “but we can’t do anything right now, not like this. We made a decision, and both parties supported that. A lot of lives were lost that night, and you know as well as I do that we can’t have them hating us. Don’t you think we ought to start accepting this than fight it?”
Ron turns to look at her and barks out a dry laugh. “And then what, hope for the best? I can’t believe you’re even saying this! This situation is only temporary, and as soon as we find out what spell it was, we can get everything back.” There’s a fierceness in his voice that Ginny finds familiar. It’s quite old but now tinged with a reverberating melancholy.
Ginny almost wants to believe that he’s right. No, she believes that what he’s saying is right but not possible. The look in her brother’s eyes reminds her of that day at Hogwarts when Ron told her with determination that he was going to be an Auror, and she believed him wholeheartedly.
“I miss everything just as much as you do, Ron.” She watches as he struggles with a myriad of conflicting thoughts. There’s too much debris and clutter on every person’s mind, and Ginny wishes she can say that one word to make them go away. Ron gives her a blurred, glassy-eyed look before resuming his task.
“Anyway, be sure to drink those, and Hermione said to call her soon.”
Scrub. Scrub.
“Huh. I’ll probably just ring Hermione later,” he mutters to himself as Ginny slips out the door.
Ron takes his time going through his evening routine of mediocre tea and cursing broken heaters. Tonight he finds himself with a young moon, so, for the third time in a week, he grabs his jacket and meets the early evening air outside.
He turns left in front of the Bronze Courtyard, crosses the first intersection, then turns left at the corner of the video shop. He knows this route like the back of his hand, and he steadies his pace. A half-hour ride on the bus and he feels out of sorts. Sometimes, the immensity of what is missing hits him like a bludgeon to the head, and he feels dizzy and ill like the world will never be right again.
Episkey. Scourgify. Accio. Wingardium Leviosa. Tergeo. Protego. Rictusempra. Episkey… He recites the mantra in his head over and over. He rolls the syllables on his tongue, remembering how the Professors at Hogwarts taught him a long time ago. His grip tightens. He’s afraid he might forget this, the Latin, the pronunciation, the magic. It’s slowly fading, every minute he spends in this world without the tiniest bit of connection to everything he loves is killing the memories. He’s afraid that he’s forgetting, and he thinks he might die from it.
The driver calls his stop, and he gets off.
The temperature is lower here than in most parts of the city, and Ron never forgets to bring along the ridiculous ear muffs and scarf Ginny gave him for his birthday. He squares his shoulders and begins the short hike up the hill.
There’s a block of marble stone just a little up ahead with the words Refuge of Silence carved on it, and underneath were verses of lament and grief, For the thousands of souls that met their…. It might have looked strangely looming and isolated, but the Muggle caretakers never forget to place flowers around it for company. Tonight, the chrysanthemums’ petals speak a silent red in the moonlight.
Ron marches on, it’s about five minutes to the top, and he thinks without much hope that each of the 5-minute treks he’d taken here for the past 6 months all lead to the same thing. He’s not sure what he comes here for, and it’s as if the answer is just buried there, refusing to be found.
He glimpses the familiar white expanse of wall at the top. The light from the moon reflects the silver engravings on it, and Ron walks up to it, pauses to skim the rows and columns of letters blending into words. Close to 5,000 faceless names, but Ron knows where to look and finds it immediately. Timothy Harris, Remus J. Lupin, Susan Jones… and just a few spaces below it, Harry James Potter. He regards it with a steady stare for a while then continues up the path towards a small clearing surrounded by trees, just on the edge of a cliff.
He moves forward and takes in the view of the wide open space below him. The sky is littered with the occasional clouds, but the moon bathes everything in a deep blue glow. Ron waits, just like the dozens of times he’s come here before, for something that might clue him in on this baffling puzzle. This had been a battleground, but at the same time it was not.
Six months to the day, and it’s been all about compromises. Ron never imagined the end to be like it had been, more like the end of everything than anything else. It left him completely stumped and despondent.
He needs to know exactly what happened here six months ago, and it feels like he’s just going in circles, his search always leading him here, where everything ended and this began. This place has always been a dead end, but the other path in the fork that leads to another end is not as dead and permanent as this. He must remember.
There is a soft, cool breeze blowing across the land, and Ron breathes it in. It’s time to leave.
He needs to remember what happened.
He always takes the longer path going down. The scent of pine trees soothes his tired soul, and the silence that hangs over the place gives justice to its name. Another bus ride and he ends up in another more obscure part of town. A 5-minute walk, a left here, a right there, and he arrives at the two-storey, newly painted building.
He squints and runs his finger down the list of residents until he spots it. He presses the buzzer right next to a Mr. H. Wilkins and waits patiently in the confused September fog. “Yes, who’s there?”
He shifts on his feet. “It’s me.”
“Oh, Mr. Weasley.” Ron has never found it stranger to be associated with this kind of niceties, but he is slowly getting accustomed to it. “I mean Ronald, hello! Uhh you’re just in time, I just came from work. I’ll buzz the door for you.” His voice is the same, Ron thinks, except that the clean slate it perches on gives a foreign tone to it.
Ron takes the stairs two at a time. Please, he must remember. The images of everything he holds dear come flooding his mind, and he is thankful that he isn’t forgetting. Whatever may come after this, he believes it’ll be worth the wait and the sacrifices. He believes it will all come back.
He raps on the door, once, twice, three times, and Ron pulls on a small, sideways grin as the door opens. A messy mop of black hair, bespectacled green eyes. Some things never change.
“Harry.”
-end-